Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles

by Margaret George

  As the skies lightened in the next dawn, Bothwell sighted land at a distance. It was shrouded in mist and bluish white, and very high indeed. Mountains, capped by snow, came almost down to the water.

  “Norway,” he breathed. Yes, it had to be.

  Suddenly he remembered that odd dream he had had about Norway, in which he had actually spoken Norwegian. An omen? It made him shudder, but at the same time it made the Norwegian coast seem a friendly, beckoning place. I have already been here, in my dreams, he thought. So I have nothing to fear.

  The captain came over to him on unsteady legs. He draped himself over the rail, his arms limp.

  “Thirty-six hours of battle,” he said. “I hope never to endure its like again.” His voice was a whisper.

  “Where are we?” asked Bothwell. “Can you determine it when the sun comes out?”

  “Aye,” he said. “The astrolabe will tell us exactly how far we’ve come. But I know this is Norway; no other place has these mountains. It is not Iceland or Denmark. The tip of the Shetlands is a good two hundred miles from the Norwegian coast, so I imagine we’ve put our enemies far behind. Look!” He pointed out to starboard, at the bobbing shape of another boat. “Our other ship is with us! God has brought us both safely through!”

  “Thanks be to Him,” said Bothwell. He looked at the strewn deck, burnt from the fire, pocked with holes, littered with frayed ropes and pieces of torn canvas. Overturned barrels and debris lay everywhere. The mast was crooked, but still held. “We will have to refit ourselves in port. But what of that? We are free! We have won!” He embraced the captain. “We are free!”

  LXII

  Mary stood by the water landing, waiting for George Douglas to return. She knew it gave him pleasure to see her there, enveloped in one of her hooded mantles, and it gave her a reason to stand by the water’s edge without causing her guards alarm. She liked to watch the water, with its surface rippled by the rising winds, its colour changing as it reflected the intermittent clouds and sunshine. Some days, now that it was well into autumn, the entire lake was a swirl of mist, like a dream disappearing into a dream.

  Gradually her guards had grown more lax, but she was still not allowed beyond the castle walls by herself. They allowed her to stand at the boat landing only because they could watch her from the main gate.

  The routine was unyielding. Soldiers—there were some sixty of them in the island garrison—guarded the walls and the single entrance gate. The only time they deserted their posts was during the brief supper hour, when they all went into the hall to eat. Then the gate was locked, and the keys placed by Sir William’s plate while he dined. Thus they were never out of sight.

  Mary and her party were still housed in the square tower, and two of the Douglas ladies would sleep in the quarters with them. As far as they knew, Mary did not write or receive letters, and her only source of news was what Lord James permitted them to tell her. In truth, young George, outraged at their treatment of her, acted as her liaison with the world. To be safe, she wrote very few letters, but he kept her abreast of the news from Edinburgh and beyond.

  Dear George! Sometimes she thought he must have been provided by fate, because there was no other explanation for him. He was everything she had imagined Darnley to be—brave, honest, innocent. Now he was her only consolation, bringing her news, treating her as someone worthy of love and respect, when all the world had branded her whore and murderess, and condemned her without a trial.

  She tried to tread a fine line between showing George that she deeply appreciated him, and encouraging his affections. She now knew so much more than she had before; Bothwell had taught her about her own desires, and in their new existence it was hard to keep them hidden. She was no longer the virgin who had danced merrily with Chastelard and then been bewildered by his response; the careless queen who liked to lean against people, whispering secrets, warming herself; the nonchalant woman who could sit up late at night alone with Riccio and think nothing of it. Then her body had been an innocuous thing, something neutral and easy to disregard; now it seemed a dangerous creature of its own that could speak without her knowledge, and say things to others she did not wish to say, and without her permission. Perhaps it had spoken all along, and others had heard it, although she had been deaf to it herself.

  At night she often lay awake, reliving times when she had lain in Bothwell’s arms, trying to recall every detail. It made her hot and achy, and frantic that she could not remember things exactly. She had dreams in which he came to her, dreams in which their times together were recreated in minute, explosive detail. She would awaken in wonder, her heart racing, her body shiny with sweat, and sit up gasping. Then she would hear the snoring of the Douglas women, smell the water of the loch, and weep with disappointment.

  As her health recovered, Bothwell grew stronger in her mind rather than fading away as her enemies assumed he would. She never mentioned him to them, partly because she did not want to desecrate his name by exposing it to them, but also to mislead them. If they thought she had given him up, then perhaps they might be less likely to persecute him.

  But where was he? She had heard nothing since Lord James had taunted her with the squadron of ships he had sent to capture Bothwell in the Orkneys. Where, where, where, was he?

  For a while in her dreams he stormed the walls of the castle and rowed her away. But for a good time now she had realized that she would have to manage her own escape, and then go to him. Hence, George Douglas: her only dim hope of escape. Yet she did care for him and his safety, and did not want to bring trouble down on his head as well. Already his family was watching him closely, after Lord James’s warning.

  The boat was approaching; she could see it bobbing on the water. George had gone to Edinburgh at the behest of his father to confer with his august older brother, the Regent. She hoped he had been able to linger long enough to talk to the French or English ambassador.

  The boat tied up at the dock, and Mary allowed herself to wait before greeting George; the soldiers were watching and would notice any eagerness or friendliness on her part, or his. So he merely nodded at her and whispered, “By the oak,” as he passed by on his way toward the gate. He would dutifully report everything to his parents, indulge in a lengthy visit with them, drink wine, and only later be able to see her. “The oak” was the huge tree just outside the round tower, and technically outside the walls. The guards did not care, as there was so little ground there and no boat landing, so that it was impossible to escape.

  * * *

  It was twilight before George strolled toward the gate and, with Mary by his side, said grandly to the guard, “It is all right, Jock,” and walked out. They made their way slowly round the castle, staying close to the walls—for the water was within ten feet of them—until they finally reached the large boulder that lay at the foot of the oak. The water touched its foot, but they could sit on its rounded hump and be sheltered by the heavy branches of the tree, now covered with yellowing leaves that fell crisply.

  “Now, George, tell me quickly!” she said. “Is the Lord James well?” I wish he were not, she thought, but I must not stretch George’s loyalty, for they are brothers.

  He turned his open smile on her. “Aye. He thrives on the Regency.”

  “He has coveted it long enough,” she said, before she could stop herself. “Undoubtedly he has rehearsed it many a day.”

  “In truth, things are quiet. The city is recovering; so are all the Lords. I have heard they plan to call a Parliament in December to publish their reasons. But for now, no one stirs. Even Knox has fallen uncharacteristically silent.”

  “He wore himself out whipping up hysteria to drive me from my throne. Even rabble-rousers need rest.” She looked over at George, at his clean young profile as he was staring out across the loch, his eyes narrowed. Oh, why could Darnley have not truly been like this? “But what of my son? What of James?”

  “He slumbers on at Stirling, but from all reports is healthy and
even beginning to talk.”

  “Alas, poor child!” she said. “I wonder what words they are teaching him?” Mother, murderess, and adulteress were probably high on their list, above duck and stool and cheese. Oh, if only—She stopped her thoughts, “Have the foreign governments recognized him as King?”

  George shook his head. “Queen Elizabeth refuses to, much to Jamie’s anger.” He used the family’s affectionate nickname for the stern Regent.

  Mary laughed in glee. “He did not count on that!”

  “Nay, and she’s stubborn. The French hem and haw, but do not dress down Jamie the way the English Queen does. By God, she has courage!”

  “Yes.” Yes, she did. But she was so unpredictable. She had always supported the Lords, and yet now she refused to recognize them. Mary remembered the “Elizabeth ring,” and wished she had it with her now. It was in Edinburgh, where she had left it behind in her flight.

  “If I were to escape,” she said idly, “what do you think she would do?” And what will you do to this suggestion? She almost held her breath waiting.

  “Why, I think she would help you, and restore you to your throne,” he said. He was looking directly into her eyes, so fiercely that she could not drop hers or look away. “But first, of course, you would have to be free. And that would be difficult. You would need a confidant, someone you could trust.”

  This was the moment. If she was wrong, that would end it. But if she was right, this was the time to speak.

  “I believe I have that. Have I?”

  He hesitated, as if steeling himself. “Yes,” he finally said. “I will do what I can.” Immediately he grasped her hand as if to caution her. “But I am only one person, and closely watched—and unproved in battle. I am no Bothwell—”

  “There is only one Bothwell,” she said, and her meaning was clear. She was so relieved and excited that George had declared himself on her side that she hated to open herself up to sorrow so soon on its heels, but she had to ask. “Is there—has there been any news of him?”

  “Aye.” The single word hung there, and it was as if the noise of the water rose up and became louder around them.

  A dreadful, cold fear gripped her. “What?”

  “He managed to escape from Grange and all Jamie’s forces. There was a long sea battle, and just when it seemed he was doomed, a fierce storm blew up from the southwest. Now they say this is proof of his witchcraft, that he raised it by the black arts.”

  “And they truly believe that?”

  “They fear him, so they comfort themselves by saying he is in league with the supernatural.”

  “So he has escaped?” That was all that mattered.

  “For a time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He was blown all the way to Norway, where he landed safely. But then, once there, he encountered difficulties with the authorities. They have taken him to Copenhagen as a prisoner.”

  “Oh!” she cried. “When? Why?”

  “I know not why, but it was on the last day of September. And now that the Lord James knows of his whereabouts, he is busy trying to get him extradited, or else executed in Denmark. To his credit, King Frederick has refused both requests. But still he continues to hold him prisoner. It is my guess he wants some ransom for him.”

  She stifled a cry by stuffing her fist into her mouth. “O God! If only I had something! But everything has been taken from me—my jewels, my plate, even my clothes!” She had to think of something. “Do you think—if I appealed to the King—can you take a letter from me?”

  “It would be known, dear lady. King Frederick would announce it. And then they would know who carried it, and remove me from the island.”

  She felt panic rising in her. “But I must help him!”

  “There is no way you can,” George said sadly.

  “Is there no one to help him?” she cried. “No kind soul, whom I can repay?”

  “Only the Queen of England or of France could do that, and neither would,” George replied.

  “There must be no torture greater than this,” she finally said. “To be unable to aid the one you love, and just to sit by and watch him suffer.”

  “Aye,” said George, looking at her.

  * * *

  The leaves fell from the trees, leaving bare, twisted limbs, and the sedge and reeds withered. A little crust of ice, like a wispy bread, formed around the edges of the island, but as Mary had suspected, the loch itself did not freeze.

  In the cold, nasty weather, the number of boats passing to and from the island were few in number. The laundresses made their weekly journey, collecting the soiled linens and delivering the clean, and fishermen brought in their catches, but all other business ceased. The Laird shuffled about with sad, rheumy eyes, coughing incessantly. Normally he vacated the island castle during the winter and lived in his manor house on the mainland, but because of his royal guest, he was now a prisoner here as well. Lady Douglas was solicitous of him, and gave Mary resentful looks.

  You needn’t look at me in blame, Madam, Mary thought. I would gladly free you—were I free myself.

  She and her ladies worked on their embroidery in the dull candlelight, huddled in the tower room with a fire burning at all times. The days stretched on interminably, long pale days when nothing happened, when the most exciting thing was matching two shades of red exactly from two different threads.

  Sometimes she and George were left alone before the fire, she sewing, he mending weapons and sharpening swords.

  “Tell me a story, George,” she would say, and he would smile and tell her of the voyages of Ulysses, or the fall of Troy. His face would grow dreamy and his voice thick and drowsy as the sleet beat against the windows and he recounted stories that had happened on dusty, windy plains, or on the high seas. Mary Seton and Nau would draw up a cushion and listen. George could tell stories the way Riccio could sing songs.

  It helped the days to pass—dark, cold days with creeping damp and bitter mists. There was no word of Bothwell.

  * * *

  It was March before they were able to work out a plan. Christmas had come and gone, a dreary Twelfth Night, with nothing to celebrate for Mary. The Lords had carried out their threat to publish the reasons for their behaviour. Throwing aside all pretence of having acted in order to “save” Mary from Bothwell (or, rather, from her own insane passion for him, depending on which official story they quoted), they now switched to branding her a murderess along with him. They announced the incriminating letters that they claimed proved her to have planned her husband’s death and to have lured him back to Edinburgh on her lover Bothwell’s instructions, acting as a decoy. Lord James, the conscientious Regent, sent a herald to Lochleven, in accordance with the ancient custom of Scotland that forfeitures and outlawry of any great peer be announced at a place where the sovereign was personally present, to read her the Act of Privy Council, and inform her that Lord Bothwell’s estates were forfeit, Maitland and Morton having received part of them.

  The gold and scarlet tabards were fluttering, and the lion-banner at the prow of the boat made a bright spot of colour in the dull greyness the day the herald arrived. He stood and read out:

  “That the cause of their taking up arms, and taking of the Queen’s person upon the fifteenth day of June last past, and holding and detaining of the same within the house and place of Lochleven, and all things said and done by them since the tenth of February last, on which day the late King Henry, the Queen’s lawful husband, was shamefully and horribly murdered, was all in the said Queen’s own default, in as far as by divers her privy letters, written and subscribed by her own hand, and sent by her to James Earl of Bothwell, chief executer of the said horrible murder, as well before the committing thereof as after, and by her ungodly and dishonourable proceeding in a private marriage with him, it is most certain that she was privy part and parcel of the actual device and deed of the forementioned murder of the King her lawful husband, committed by the said James Earl
of Bothwell, his accomplices and partakers, and therefore justly deserves whatsoever has been attempted or shall be used toward her for the said cause.”

  Then, having fulfilled his official duty, he stepped back in the boat and was rowed away, leaving the castle inhabitants standing on the landing and staring after him.

  Since then, in desperation, Mary had redoubled her efforts to find some way to escape, all the while trying to act like a placid, broken person—someone who did not bear watching too closely.

  There was only George to try to arrange things, although a kinsman of some sort (could the Laird have his own bastard?), named Willie Douglas, might also be recruited. He seemed to come and go as he pleased, and the family still regarded him as a child, although he was almost fifteen.

  The first plan George offered was that he would manage to organize a group of loyalists on shore who would seize the Laird’s great boat when it was tied up at the manor house, row out to the castle, and storm it at night, aided by George from within the walls. Unfortunately, somehow the Laird got wind of a possible plot by unknown persons, and locked up the great boat. Next he proposed to lie in wait with his men—the same loyalists—in the ruins of the monastery on the deserted St. Serf’s Island in the loch. Then Mary could prevail on the Laird to allow her to go hawking there; when they arrived, the Laird and his servants would be overpowered and Mary spirited away to freedom.

  But this involved too many other people, and would require being rowed across the water twice: once to St. Serf’s, and once to the mainland. At one point George thought it might be simpler just to board Mary up in a box and let it be transported innocently back to Kinross.

  “Nay, that’s foolish,” little Willie objected. “It is always better to rely on your own two feet. Let the Queen walk out, in disguise. That is surer.” He had a strange way of jerking his head when he spoke that made him appear stupid, which he was not.

  “Yes,” George had mused. “Perhaps she could change clothes with one of the servants. But how would she get out? The gates are always guarded, except when the soldiers are eating, between half past seven and nine at night, and then they are locked.” George had found himself spending more and more time thinking of the Queen: of her low, intimate voice, of her slender, delicate hands. She was starting to invade his dreams as well, giving him things in them that he dared not think of in the daylight.